Well, in the end, the weekend was lovely. Despite the fact that I worked for about ¼ of it. Sad sad sad. My inner workaholic is the biggest joke I can think of.
Being in the womb must have been my fondest time in life. I can't stand chlorine and I can't stand salt, but put me in some clear, fresh water and I am one happy baby. I like to swim out into the middle of the pond and pretend I don't have the strength to get back to the shore. This, I think, would be the nicest way to go, the way I came in, wet and dark and surrounded. Just because I'm claustrophobic doesn't mean I don't like to be held.
When you float on your back and the water is calm, that's when you know your breath the best. Fuck yoga. You breathe in, you're on top. You breathe out, you sink. It's that simple. The sound rushes through your ears and you know how close death is to life, stalkers and strangers, two knobs on the same door.
It's the only thought you can have, miles from the shore, too far out for saving. There is no one to be liked by, nothing to complain about, no idea to be believed. It's your senses leaving, one by one, until all you know is the feel of the water around you, moving while you stay still.
I need to live there all of the time. It's my home, somehow. It's who I am. I have no family, no friends, no job or house... just this overwhelming feeling of place, of purpose, of self.
Condos start at 179.
